


Routine Adjustments

by Toffle



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: ADHD Lance (Voltron), Autistic Keith (Voltron), Domestic Fluff, Domestic!AU, Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 06:07:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,876
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15357921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toffle/pseuds/Toffle
Summary: Snap shots set during the first month of sharing an apartment together, where Keith reflects on a few of the adjustments that Lance has to make after moving in.





	Routine Adjustments

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to explore a few of the ways we have to adjust our routines when moving home, or moving in with someone. The changes we have to make, the new things we begin, and the compromises we make. I thought it would be cute to explore that through my favourite characters.

**i.**

 

  “Lance? Are you trying to redecorate my walls?”

  “You mean _our_ walls?” Keith grimaces. Toothpaste drips down the toothbrush hanging loose from Lance’s mouth. “And what’re you talking about anyway?”

  He takes a pointed step to the right and waits for Lance’s eyes to land on the bright yellow square. “Oh! Right, yeah, it’s Thursday!”  
 Keith blinks and Lance is gone, the toothbrush with him.

  “Lance?”

  “Hold on a minute!”

  He hears the front door open from down the hall followed by Lance’s flip-flops against the concrete outside. Even from inside the apartment, the screech of the trash-shoot still reaches Keith’s ears. He winces.

  True to word, Lance returns a minute later. He ducks past Keith and back into the bathroom, not before plucking the sticky note from the wall with a flourish.

  “Uh… So is this a thing now?”

  Lance spits into the sink and switches off the tap. “The notes?”

  “Well, yeah.” He motions to the bathroom door where two smaller notes in green and yellow are attached. _Lock Broken! Knock First_.

  Lance scratches the back of his neck. “Well, it’s only been a week since I moved in. Kinda helps me set a new routine, y’know? Get into the swing of things, avoid pitfalls, and all that ‘fun’ stuff.”

  Oh. That’s oddly sensible? He runs his mind through images of Lance’s old apartment, the To-Do List on the wall, and the notes all over the fridge covered in magnets. Of course moving into a new home would be a big adjustment.

   An old discomfort rises in memories of foster home disruption, and one too many displacements. Keith focuses on the note behind Lance’s head and tries not to let it unsettle him.

   A patient voice that sounds suspiciously like Shiro, reminds him that Keith was the one to invite Lance to live with him in the first place, and that Keith needs to make his own adjustments too. He just hadn’t quite expected Lance’s to be so… colourful.

   Keith reaches up and pulls Lance’s hand away from abusing the worn corded necklace around his collar. “Just… let me know if you need an extra reminder, or something. I think I know a thing or two about routines.”

  Lance’s eyes light up, a little more alert, and his shoulders relax, hopefully a little less self-conscious?

  “Thank you, Keith.”

 

 

**ii.**

 

   _The rogue drew his dagger. Three feet cut the distance between the stone pillar and the guard, but the stretch of shadows gave him the advantage. Pike raised his weapon and—_

  “—the left, the left. All the cups go in the third cupboard to the left. Third cupboard. Left. Cups. Third cupboard. Left. Cups… ”

  Keith snaps the book shut on page eighty-seven.

  Behind the sofa that marks the boundary-line to the kitchen, Lance dances at the sink with a dish towel. For the last twenty minutes, he’s been washing and drying the dishes on some weird quest to memorise where everything ‘lives’.

  Keith rests his chin on the back of the sofa and glowers over the cushion. Is it really that hard to wash the dishes in silence? Does everything have to be vocalised right now? He wants to tell him to stop, but the words aren’t forming right.

   _Plates on the bottom shelf. Cutlery in the right hand drawer. Mugs, middle shelf._

  The edges of the book press grooves into Keith’s palms. He’s managed to read the same line five times in that past two minutes thanks to Lance’s self-chatter.

  Each repetition gets harder to block out, near shredding at his nerves until it becomes a harsh white noise between his ears.

  “Just leave the cupboards open, Lance!” He snaps.

  Lance nearly drops a plate, shoulders hitching up to his ears. They curl inwards as he sets the plate down on the counter. “... My bad.”

  Keith thumbs at the new pages and settles back into the cushions.

  There’s silence from the kitchen, and Keith turns back to page eighty-seven hearing only the occasional clink or clatter from the dishes.

_Pike raised his weapon and sprung from the darkness!_

 

  Pink, yellow, and green. Keith finds a small sticky-note on every cupboard the next morning, each one detailing the location of plates, mugs, and bowls. A colourful reminder for Lance to stop opening the same top-left cupboard every morning expecting his favourite mug to be there.

  Keith rubs at his knuckle, and recalls every lesson Shiro ever taught him about mindfulness, about speaking up before things become too much.

  A single blue note sticks to the drying rack.

  _Sorry <3 _

_\- L_

 

 

**iii.**

 

  The first note to ever grace Keith’s home is an obnoxious, bright pink. Lance sticks it to the right hand corner of the bathroom mirror on his third night after the big move, to ‘catch his eye’ every morning.

  _‘ Meds. Meds. MEDS!’_ repeat over and over in increasingly bold handwriting. Keith can almost hear his voice gaining volume with each word.

  Admittedly, it’s a helpful reminder. Shiro finds it useful and entertaining on the nights he decides to return home from the Holt's, or from a much needed retreat. His medication still lives on the top shelf behind the bathroom mirror. A necessary support after the two year hellscape he survived.

  Sometimes, Iverson’s voice still rings too loud in Keith’s mind. _Pilot error. No survivors._

  Lance’s own medication sits on the bottom shelf, Concerta XR. Another new addition to the upheaval of his life now that he can afford to pay for it.

  He locks his first routine into place after a week of stubborn McClain effort: brush teeth, wash face, medication, and then breakfast. Despite this, and much to Keith’s own despair, Lance manages to then spend half an hour in front of the closet because apparently he can’t _just_ put on clothes like everyone else.

_“Just pick an outfit, it’s not that hard!”_

_“There’s a process, Keith! We can’t all be fashionless animals.”_

  At least Keith’s own routine has him washed and dressed long before Lance is even awake. ‘Small mercies’ might be the right term.

  Water splashes next to him, and Keith drags his attention away from the hideous neon square. A permanent fixture?

  He adjusts his seat on the edge of the bathtub and runs the tips of his fingers through Lance’s wet hair.

  “How do you have the energy for all of this?” He asks.

  Lance tilts his head back and raises a brow. “I’m pretty sure that when it comes to relaxation, the idea is to use no energy.”

  Keith pulls at his bangs until they form droopy, wet spikes. “The fifty products in your hair and on your skin say otherwise.”

  “It’s therapeutic, Keith. Step by step, recommended spa therapy.” Lance’s skin squeaks against the porcelain as he shrugs a shoulder. Keith’s nose wrinkles. “Seems more like a hassle.”

  “Maybe so...” Lance tugs Keith’s hand away from his head and presses his lips to the currently glove-free skin. “But you can’t tell me you don’t enjoy my flawless smooth skin and oh so, soft hair.”

  “I could tell you a lot of things, Lance. Doesn’t mean they’re true.”

  Lance’s breath catches, and his laughter drowns out quite literally as he slips beneath the water with a squeak and a splutter.  

 

 

**iv.**

 

   _“What do you mean Luis was in a play? When? …  Was he the star? … No, no. I meant the actual star, did they hang him from the ceiling, because…”_

  Lance’s voice breaks through the thin wall of their shared bedroom. Keith tilts his head towards the noise. Lance is in the living room this time, probably balancing his laptop on his knees as if it doesn’t cost more than their rent.

  Keith rolls his chair back from the desk and lets it spin slowly until he can’t avoid facing Lance’s disaster of a desk along the opposite wall. Papers lean in a threatening tower, ready to tip off of the ‘filing’ system that may as well be two trays balanced on top of each other. There’s a dozen loose pens scattered free of their case, and Lance wonders why he always loses everything? Keith scoffs and sinks lower in his chair.

  A month ago, this whole space was his, a half-empty bedroom with Shiro living in the room across the hall. Now there’s two beds, two desks, a boyfriend, and a weird half-life between being a graduate and a functioning adult. This was not where he imagined his life leading to, and Lance’s presence arrived equally as unexpected.

   _“ … are you kidding me?! Coran’s presentation took four hours. My soul left this plane of mortal existence… ”_

  Keith snorts hearing the betrayed cry of Coran’s name, and scoots his chair over to read the large, neon orange sticky note attached to the whiteboard calendar above Lance’s desk. He’s pinned it in place for ‘extra security’ right above where his laptop normally sits ‘ _because it’s bright like the Cuban sun, and you can’t ignore it.’._

  It’s a vibrant reminder to keep in touch with his family. Every friday at four pm, Lance finds somewhere to video call them without disturbing Keith. Sometimes, if he’s lucky, Keith catches him wandering around with the laptop held in his hands, and Lance falters mid-sentence as though caught red-handed for a reason he still hasn’t figured out yet.  

  Keith slides further down his chair and rotates it with his foot. Maybe he should start calling Shiro more frequently, or would that just make him worry…

  An odd mesh of Spanish and English floats through the walls and Keith closes his eyes to listen, almost soothed by the excited cadence of Lance’s voice. He can’t remember the last time Shiro spoke Japanese around him, but maybe it would be worth learning Spanish for Lance.

  The calls usually last around two hours… Keith stretches his arm out and inches himself closer to his desk by his heels. He swipes a pen and writes a note to check a few of the local colleges in the area. Somewhere has to have evening language classes available.

  The pointed raise of Lance voice in the living room goes unnoticed.

 

_“ … Sorry mama, the boyfriend still thinks he needs an invite to these calls. Next time? I’ll ask … ”_

 

 

**v.**

 

  “Keith… Babe, you okay?”

  Keith groans louder and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. At least the swirling colours are nice compared to the shit show of the rest of the day.

  “The zombie sounds aren’t all that reassuring, if I’m being honest here.”

  The bed dips and Keith grunts. He can almost feel the warmth radiating through Lance’s leg. Why can’t he just sit closer?

  “Can I touch you?”

  “Yeah.”

  Lance does more than that. His weight falls across Keith’s back, a fair bit heavier than the blanket underneath them. Keith drops his arms and whines.

  “Today sucks.”

  “You wanna talk about it?”

  Keith turns his cheek into the patterned quilt and focuses on the warmth and weight of Lance’s chest. “They moved my schedule around without a warning.”

  “Oof. That’s rough buddy.”

  _“ Lance!_ ”

  “No, hear me out, I’m serious.” Lance shifts against his back getting comfortable. “That sucks big time, and you should totally take it up with head office.”

  “I did! They said nothing can be change whilst they sort out some administration ‘issues’.”

  Lance’s snort vibrates against his ribs. “Well that’s a load of bull. But hey, anything I can do to help?”

  “Actually… I think there might be?”

 

  They draft them up together. Three bright green sticky notes that will live on the cupboard housing Thunderstorm’s dog food, treats, harness, and leash. One details the first routine that Keith ever trained into the overgrown pup in order to keep him calm whilst getting ready. Another maps the usual route that Keith would usually jog with Thunderstorm through the park.

  “Are you sure you’re okay to do this? You shouldn’t have to cut your break short because some ass holes changed my schedule… ”

  “Relax, Keith. It lines up nicely with my lunch break, and I get to spend some quality time with Stormy.” Keith rubs his thumb over back of Lance’s hand, searching his face for anything that could read negative. Lance winks. “Besides, something needs to keep these good looks in peak form after hours of leaning over my desk. I think I can handle a jog through the park.”

  Keith snatches back his hand and shoves Lance’s face away. “No one can say I didn’t try to be nice.”

  He peels the final note from the pad and sticks it beneath the first two.

  This one is much shorter, and much sweeter.

_Thank you x_

_\- K_

 

 

**i.**

 

  Seven am mocks Keith in the bold font of the kitchen clock. Lance dances by the stove, with the radio tuned into music far too happy for the early morning hour. Why is he not crying into his coffee like usual?

  “What’s up, Keith? You’ve been glaring at the table for like ten minutes.”

  “Why are you so awake?”

  Lance’s eyebrow lifts and he shifts his weight onto his back leg. “They’re bringing in the new equipment to the lab? I’ve talked a hole through your ear about this for two weeks?”

  And he had. Keith bites the tip of his thumb as the memories come back. “That’s today?”

  “Yup! I get to play with Coran’s new toys.” Lance bounces on the spot, then jerks around to turn off the stove. Keith listens to him chatter as he dishes up breakfast. “Honestly, the amount of pure luck letting this happen is _out of this world_.” He snorts. “Y’know, Coran has been applying for this for three years? Three! We were still doing our degree, Keith!”

  “And now we have a shiny masters degree, whilst you pursue a doctorate in debt.”

  “Well one of us will be going into space, so worth it.” He sets his plate down and places the other in front of Keith. “No green peppers, or mushrooms.”

  “Five star service? I don’t think I can afford this.”

  Lance’s laughter makes up for the obnoxious music playing in the background. At least, it does, until Lance tugs Keith up and out of his chair with an unexpected amount of energy.  

  He whips them in a dizzy circle over the tiled floor, and it’s all Keith can do to hold on and not trip face first into Lance’s chest.

  He lifts his head to snap when the sun through the kitchen window catches his eye.

  The anger fizzles out and he drops his chin onto Lance’s shoulder to watch.

  A thousand colours whirl across the counter tops, scattered through the crystal wind chime Lance had picked up in some dollar store the other day. They spill gold across the kettle, and burn red along all the kitchen handles, but it’s the blues, and pinks that glitter across the metal sink and the radio that has him mesmerised.

  “Keith… ”

  Lance slows their dance and Keith tunes back into the music too early for the morning hour. “What?”

  “I asked if you were okay?” Lance shifts on his toes and pulls away. Keith tightens his grip on his shirt.

  “Stay.”

  “Okay. But uh, you kinda zoned out there a little…” There’s a pinch between his eyebrows and Keith can’t quite place why it bothers him. “I probably should have asked first before dragging you across the kitchen.”

  Oh. _Oh._

  “What? No.” Keith steps back and reaches up to squash Lance’s cheeks between his hands. He turns his head to the window because _look!_ “I’m not mad. Just, distracted.”

  “Das greh, Keef. Cah I ahf m’fay bah?”

  Keith lets go of Lance’s face and snickers loud enough for Lance to whine.

  Lance rubs at his cheeks. “You rival Pidge for having the vice grip of a small, angry crab.”

  “It wasn’t that hard.” He tugs the cord around Lance’s neck and clicks the beads together. “Also…  I hope you like your omelette cold.”

  They both glance back to the kitchen table, and Keith laughs harder with Lance’s soft, guilty _oops_.

 

  Keith leans against the counter in silence the next morning, hands wrapped around hot tea. There’s hotcakes grilling on a low heat in the pan beside him, but they won’t start burning for another five minutes. He’s left a mug, still steaming, on the kitchen table where Lance usually sits.

  He sips his tea and waits.

  Not quite like clockwork, but something close to it, Lance wanders in mid-yawn despite his morning routine and siddles up to Keith.

  “Pancakes?”

  Keith tilts his head away and Lance kisses him square on the cheek. “Close. Maybe you’ll find out if you go and sit down.”

  “As you wish.” Lance steals a proper kiss, and Keith wrinkles his nose at the sharp peppermint.

  When Lance pulls back the chair and pauses with a confused noise, Keith has to smother his laughter. A bright blue sticky note sits in the centre of Lance’s empty plate.

   _Ask me to dance._

  The i’s are missing their dots, and the t’s are crossed too far forward, handwriting much sharper than Lance’s own, but Keith knows the words are clear.

  As far as new routines go, he hopes Lance has room for one more.

 

**Author's Note:**

> As a general note, I have ADHD and sensory issues, so I drew on a lot of my own experiences here wrt to routines, sensory overload, and a few other things.


End file.
